Author Devylish
Title Softer
Pair Yang/Karev
Rating NC17
Words 3276
Warning/Spoiler/Summary Mild reference to spanking.. None. Response to seasonal_smut, prompt using Cris/Alex, smut, and the phrase: 'I hate you, you know that right'.
Disclaimer All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of the TV show Grey's Anatomy. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of devylish. devylish is in no way associated with the TV show Grey's Anatomy and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.

He needed control. I got that. He'd spent a lot of his life without control. No money; eeking out an existence as he studied. He'd had very little in his life that he could call his own; that he could do with as he wanted. So, yeah, I understood his need for control. Probably better than he did.

Definitely better than he did.

He had a tendency to go after women who would never be controlled; who would never want to be controlled. Women who would always, always want the nice boy… the good boy. They'd been raised to expect that sweetness, to desire it.

I, of course, am nothing like those women.

Which is why he never looked at me twice… until the damn mistletoe incident.

Okay, I know it's cliché to blame mistletoe on a kiss - on THE kiss – but, damnit, there was mistletoe. And there I stood. And there he stood. And shit happened.

Hot damn fucking shit.

Why hadn't I looked at him sooner? Why hadn't I seen – realized - that he was broken – as broken as me – and that he could give me what I needed?

Probably for the same reason that he never saw me; never went after me. I was looking in the wrong places. In the wrong directions.

In his case, this Christmas, Izzie was gone. Finding herself in another state. Recovering from her cancer; from the surgery; from the twists and turns her life had gone through. She'd sent him the divorce papers via certified mail. Charming, huh?

Hunt and I had broken up. Oddly enough, because he'd found himself a sweet girl. A sweet girl who melted at his touch and who needed him to be strong for her.

Owen and Alex, oddly enough, weren't all that different from one another. They really only differed in 'where' their scars were, and in 'what' it would take to make them whole.

Hunt needed an angel that he could live up to; that he could strive to improve himself for.

Karev needed a hard woman. A woman who was hard and tough, that he could bend, and make his own; someone as strong as him bending to his will… simply because he told her. Simply because she wanted to.

I, in case you hadn't noticed am a pretty tough, strong woman…, and, I've never looked good wearing a halo.

I looked up at the Mistletoe. "Shit." Stupid Christmas traditions.

Then I looked at Karev who was standing across from me. "Aww, double shit!"

"Like I'm looking forward to this?" He muttered as he took a step closer to me.

"Just shut up and get it over with." I looked around to make certain not too many people I knew were near or watching. Fortunately, it appeared that most of the people still at the party were newbie residents.

And fuck! This was my fault in the first place for attending a Christmas party hosted by frosh residents! Third year, fourth year res-es, or attendings wouldn't pull this kind of crap.

The mistletoe crap.

Alex tilted his head to one side, and then to the other. "If I have to do this, I'm fucking doing it right." He put a hand on my hip, tugging me against him, and he put his second hand at the back of my neck, tilting my head back. And then, before I could complain, bitch and moan, or kick him in the balls, his lips are on mine.

The kiss.

Shit! Shit shit shit shit. My mind is stuck on one word, skipping like the needle on a piece of wax. But, while my mind is stuck, my senses are not. My lips note that his lips are soft. Demanding, but soft. And his hands, his hands are strong, supporting all of my weight against his frame.

The frame that was…. Shit shit shit shit.

He pulled his head back, opening his eyes and watching my face. And I slowly blink my own eyes open and realize my hands are grasping his bicep and my knees are weak. So I say what I'm thinking – per usual. "Shit."

"I'm going to let go of you now, think you can stand on your own?"

I dropped my hands from his arms and tighten my frame, "Asshole."

"Yeah, well," he let go of me and smirked, "I'm the asshole who just knocked your panties off with a kiss." Turning towards the ongoing party he called out to Jensen. "Yo, Simon. Beer?" And then he left my side.

Asshole.

I looked up at the fake greenery hanging over my head. Stupid damn Christmas traditions.

For a week, everything was fine. I more or less managed to ignore him. And he more or less stayed out of my way.

But a week's reprieve was all I got.

Friday night rolled around and suddenly, there he was. Standing at my right side at the assignment board.

Standing way too close to me. I could smell the scent of the scrub sap he'd used and the faint scent of his aftershave.

"What?" I ask without looking at him.

"My place, tonight. 8pm." He didn't look at me, he kept his eyes drilled on the board.

It offered as a question. And it wasn't really made as a demand. It was more a statement of fact.

"Your insanity finally showing itself?" I respond lightly although, any heart monitor in the building would have given me away.

He walked behind me – again, too close, his chest brushing against my shoulders – and he stopped at my left side.

"I'll even cook for you."

He could cook? Not that it really mattered, because, there was no way in hell…. "Karev, go torture some other woman."

He bent his head next to mine and whispered, "But you're the only one I want to torture."

I turn to look at him and our faces are inches away from one another. "Why?"

"I like the way you respond."

I refuse to blush. Refuse.

He continued, "And if I read you right, and I know I do, you like how you respond to me too."

I don't want to step away – back away from him – but, I do. "You're an asshole."

"And you're a bitch." He chuckled lightly, "Some might say we were meant to be." Glancing at the board once more, he reiterated, "dinner, my place at 8. See you there."

I open my mouth to curse him or reject him or… I don't know…, but he's already walking away from me. I yell after him: "I hate you, you get that right?"

I can hear his laughter even as he turns the corner.

Asshole. Cocky, arrogant, asshole.

I had no plans to go to Karev's.

I left the hospital and went back to my apartment as I did most nights; climbing into the shower to wipe off the grime and scent of the hospital.

That I used my jasmine and gardenia scented body wash and lotion meant nothing. That I took the time to blow dry my hair, versus just letting it air dry as I usually did, meant nothing. That I put on a pair of jeans – the ones that made men and woman drool over my sexy ass – meant nothing. That I put on that soft cotton knit top – the one that bared a shoulder – meant nothing.

That I slipped on my coat, picked up my bag and keys, and headed back out of my apartment, meant something. Meant something desperately important.

"Right on time." He opened his apartment door with just the faintest of smirks.

I push past him silently. I'm only at his place to prove a point. Or points. I'm not afraid of him… or of a stupid kiss. "So let's get this over with," I shed my coat and drop it on his couch next to my purse.

He raises a brow and looks at me.

Hell! "Dinner. Let's get this 'you feeding me something you've cooked crap' over with."

"Everything's in the oven, warming," He moved closer to me. "You look good."

I remember my no blushing rule, but just barely. "I always look good."

"That's true."

He takes another step towards me, and now he's within touching range. He – or I – could reach out a hand and just… touch… and, wait; did he just say that I always look good? What the fuck, what the fuck?

"Okay, really, Karev, are we in Oz or something? Because you giving me compliments, and this," I wave my hand between our bodies, "this is not us. It's not normal, it's… it's fucked up."

He picks this moment to touch me, placing one hand at my waist and pulling me in to him so that my body is flush against his, and, damnit, it still feels good. Wrong, but good. I stop speaking, for once, and simply look up at him.

"I do fucked up well."

Classic Yang response would be: "understatement of the year!'", or maybe, "well take your fucked up self and go fuck yourself'" but neither of these phrases slip out of my mouth. Instead I find myself wondering what else Alex Karev does well.

He reminds me with a kiss.

The mistletoe kiss had been nothing in comparison to this. This was demanding. Controlling.

I hated being told what to do. I always had, and I probably always would. But this kiss? Now? With his hand at the back of my head, tilting it to the side…? Maybe being controlled, doing what you were told wasn't all bad.

A part of me, small and ever shrinking, still wanted to tell him 'no'; to open my mouth and bitch him out for daring to assume… for trying to control me. But when our lips parted, all I could do was breathe. Breathe and make this damn girlie little whimper at the back of my throat.

He shifted us, walking/directing me until my back was against a wall. And now I'm pressed between two hard places; one cool and one hot. Neither of them very forgiving.

My hands scrabble at his shoulders and his neck, leaving small crescent moon marks as my fingers and nails claw at him; not in an attempt to get away, but in a silent plea for more.

His lips are at my neck, searching for the little spots, the pressure pints that would make me weak. Make me give in just that much quicker.

I could hear him, a small grunt or growl of pleasure/success every time he found a new button… a new weakness. And it was ridiculous how weak he could make me feel. Skin tingling, stomach fluttering, legs shaking – weak.

He tap/pulls at my thigh with his hand and I do as I'm told, lifting first one leg then the other to straddle his hips. He adjusts my weight and presses me back against the wall, my center pulsing against his denim clad erection.

I tighten my grasp on his hips, trying to ride his length while I'm caught between him and the wall.

He's tugging at the bottom of my sweater, pulling the soft material up and off of me and throwing it, carelessly, somewhere behind him in the living room. My breasts, encased in a flimsy, baby blue, strapless bra lift to his gaze, and through half closed eyes, I see him smile before he flicks open the front hook.

I arch my back and the scrap of cloth falls to the floor; forgotten as soon as it leaves my body. Forgotten because his mouth is on my left breast, laving the tender skin with the rough flat of his tongue.

So he does fucked up well, does kissing well, and does things with his tongue that only the devil should be able to do.

My nipples have hardened to peaks, pointy, sensitive peaks that he takes full advantage of, causing me to mewl. And I don't mewl. I'm not the mewling type. At least, prior to him I wasn't the mewling type. I'm the swearing, cursing, scare sane men away type. And damnit! I'm half naked and he's still dressed!

I curl my fingers at the top of his shirt and, I pull at the edges, listening with satisfaction as the buttons thwop thwop thwop off of the shirt. I ignore his chuckle at my impatience, and push the cloth off his shoulders.

He moves us out of the living room, his mouth back at my shoulder, his hands at my hips, and into his bed room. Kicking the door shut he stands in the middle of the room with me wrapped around him like a second skin.

"We need to get you out of these jeans," he murmurs.

Getting out of my jeans means loosening my grip on him; letting my skin stop touching his. Of course, getting out of my jeans also means getting naked… naked-er. That thought in mind, I obediently lower my legs from his frame, my arms still around his neck because, although me feet are touching the ground, my legs don't feel like they will support my weight.

We stand there for a few seconds, my bare chest pressed against his bare torso when I suddenly decide: fuck being obedient! I let my hands trail down his chest and his abdomen until they're resting on the waistband of his jeans. I start to work the button open when he grabs my wrists. "The pants off idea was mine, so your pants are coming off first."

A bit of my attitude sneaks out, "What are you? Six years old?"

"You can tell me if I look like a six year old when my pants are off, until then?" He turns to the side and leads me to the door. Lifting my hands so that they stretched above my head and pressed against the door I hear him crouch down behind me. "Be a good girl and don't move."

I hiss at him, "asshole."

"I can have that tattooed on my shoulder if you'd like." His hands are wrapped around me, working at the button and the zipper of my jeans. When he manages to get both undone he tugs at the waistband of the jeans, pulling the denim down off of my curves.

With the jeans pooled at feet, he helps me step out of them before turning his attention to my now nearly naked form.

"I like these." He flicks the bottom edge of the baby blue boy shorts I'm wearing.

"I'm soooo glad." I intone sarcastically.

His hand slaps against my ass cheek with a resounding crack.

"Ouch! The fuck! Karev!"

"That was for not being good." His hand is smoothing over the tingling skin he'd just hit.

It was an odd sensation; my skin screaming with heat from the slap, while, at the same time, his fingers caused a cool tickle as they caressed me.

"I've had a few dreams about this ass." He kisses the cheek he's been neglecting. "A few too many dreams."

He's dreamed about me? Or about my ass? I'd never thought about him being even partially naked. I was having all sorts of thoughts NOW, but before? Nothing. It was… gratifying – to know he'd thought about me that way. Empowering.

He pushes the top edge of the panties down lowering them along my body until they lay somewhere near my jeans. And then his hands are cupping my ass, kneading the cheeks. And he's passing soft little kisses over my skin. Soft, gentle, appreciative little kisses.

And despite the sensation, I start to laugh. I laugh until my body is trembling with mirth.

"What the fuck's so funny?"

I hiccup and chuckle, "How many times have I told you to kiss my ass!"

"Ha, ha." I can't see his smile, but I imagine it's there; this is after all, our sense of humor. Crass and honest.

He lets me laugh for a few more seconds before he turns the laughter into moans of pleasure. His fingers slip between my legs, nestling between my thighs. He passes them over my mound a few times, testing my responses, my wetness.

Parting my lips with his fingers, he dips the middle one inside of me.

"God!" I hug the door, my legs parted and my ass bowed out towards him.

As he slowly fucks me with one finger he whispers little nothings to me, his mouth pressing against my ass. The nothings are dirty, and sweet, and sensual, and innocent all at once.

He adds a second finger to his assault and I can feel rivulets of moisture sliding down my thighs. I'm on my tiptoes, my back curved at an impossible angle, wanting to give him as much access to my center as possible.

He turns his fingers inside of me, arching them outwards, an suddenly, his second hand is there, between my legs, the fingers touching my clit at the same time that his first finds and claims my g spot.

I fall over the edge. An uncontrolled, effortless, relaxed leap. My body releasing all of the energy, all of the heat it had been holding.

I'm only half aware of him standing up, holding me straight until he can loop his arms under me and carry me to the bed.

Sunlight streams into the room, which surprises me. I wouldn't have taken Karev for the bright sunshiny open windows kind of guy.

Then again, I wouldn't have taken Karev for much prior to last night.

Except for the sound of our breathing – and we're breathing in time - the room is silent.

The bed sheet lies across my thighs, curving up along my front to cover one breast. The rest of my skin is bare; bare except for the wandering caresses of his hands, trailing from my hip up to my ribs, along the side of my breast, up, along my neck.

There are bruises on my hips, bruises in the shape of his fingers and he is particularly fascinated by the bluish, purplish, red marks. His fingers, even now are tracing, ever so gently, along the darkened skin.

He kisses my neck, letting his tongue and his lips find a slow path up to my ear. "Are you okay?"

My hips are sore, my nipples are tender, my lips are puffy and ache ever so slightly and he wants to know if I'm okay. I smile despite myself. He can't see the smile from his vantage point, but I'm smiling none the less.

He's running his hand along my back now, curving his fingers along my spine. I thought the electricity had all been used last night; that there was nothing left in my body. But it seems that what he takes, he also gives back; charging my frame with energy and desire with the touch of his hand.

He asks again, "Cris? Are you okay?"

And I don't know how to speak. Everything on my body hurts, but it was a good kind of hurt. An overwhelmed, sensitized, delicious hurt.

I can feel his morning erection pressed against my ass and I turn over so that I'm lying on my other side, facing him. I look into his eyes, reading pain, and pleasure, and desire, and anger, all mixed up together.

Sliding my hands down between our bodies, I curve my fingers around his length, slowly stroking the silken skin and I lean forward, stretching upwards so that my lips touch his.

The kiss, the touch, they're not words. But they speak for me. They speak to him.